Category: Uncategorized

Some of the stuff that caught my attention this week:

Should Microsoft Word go the way of the dinosaur? Based on the title, I think the writer of this article would say, YES:

Microsoft Word is Cumbersome, Inefficient and Obsolete: It is Time for it to Die (via my friend Jim)

No Pulitzer Prize for fiction this year – what’s up Pulitzer People?

While No One Wins in Fiction…

And one of the most beautiful essays I read this week:

This is why I avoid reading the books I’ve written. Why, when I must, I approach the book as a stranger, and pretend the sentences were written by someone else.

My Life’s Sentences (via Jason McCarty)

* * * * *

Link of the week:

“Poets and Writers” database of literary journals and magazines.

* * * * *

What do you use for word processing other than Microsoft Word?

For me, Laredo, Texas is where my memories begin. I lived there for a year when I was four. A land of dust. Ants that bite with fire in their mouths. Heat and lizards and trailer parks. Empty swimming pools and a tiny church with cement block walls.

Images of my childhood Texas are much like the memories I have of childhood dreams: stacked haphazardly in the attic of my mind, covered in a fine layer of time, in a spot where, no matter how hard I search, only the edges are visible.

So when we left New Orleans last week and headed west towards Texas, I had certain expectations of what I would see. I think dust was the main one followed closely by heat, armadillos, and vultures. Yet the further west we drove in Louisiana, the more confused I became: the landscape was still green.

* * * * *

Perhaps it will happen at the Texas border, I reasoned. Perhaps the sign “Welcome to Texas” will be a small part of a great line that stretches as far as I can see to the north and south, a line separating green Louisiana from a dusty brown Texas.

But it didn’t happen. In fact, the deeper into Texas we drove, the more beautiful it became. Oaks and Mesquite covered the rolling landscape, growing alongside rocks and cacti. The trees were lower, like servants cowering from the sun, but there was something majestic in the harshness, something tantalizing in amongst the shade.

* * * * *

Mesquite trees thrive in Texas for a few interesting reasons: they have a tap root, some of which have been recorded at 190 feet under the ground; they can regrow even from six inches underground; even a piece of Mesquite root placed in the soil can regenerate.

There is something to be said for deep roots.

There is something to be said for pushing up from under the ground.

There is something to be said for being broken and split and pulled up from the earth, yet maintaining a willingness to grow again.

I sat quietly in a mall somewhere in Nashville a few weeks ago and looked at my ringing cell phone. The call I had been waiting for.

“Hello?”

The guy’s name was Kevin – I had never spoken to him before, but a shared friend had connected us, thought we should talk. And as I heard Kevin’s story, I could only nod my head in commiseration.

He was a teacher and his wife was 20-weeks pregnant with their first child. They had just purchased their first home. And then, a few weeks ago, he received news that would change the course of his life: due to budgetary cuts, his contract would not be renewed in the fall.

But he’s a great writer, and he’s trying to figure out what to do, which way to go.

“So what do you think?” he asked me. “You made a similar leap. Do you think I can make it full time as a writer?”

* * * * *

During an early leg of our trip, we spent time with some awesome friends of ours. At one point, the conversation turned to serious things, and they asked me the sort of question that only close friends can ask, the kind of question that simultaneously challenges your direction in life but also makes you thankful that you have friends who can ask tough questions.

“Do you ever worry that by encouraging people to chase their dreams, you’re actually encouraging someone to do something irresponsible?”

I thought about it for a moment, then shook my head.

“Not really,” I said. “Sure, there are folks that need to be reminded to be sensible, people who make really unwise decisions. But most people I know need to do something irresponsible. The majority of those in our generation rely so much on comfort and predictability that there’s no room for God to do something exciting in their life.”

Our discussion went long into the night.

* * * * *

I took a deep breath.

“Sheesh, Kevin, what can I say?”

He laughed.

“I’m not asking you to make the decision for me,” he said. “I mean, I kind of am…”

We both laughed.

* * * * *

It’s so much easier for me to put my own life on the line, to make high-risk decisions, and to deal with the consequences. But I live a life that, in many ways, I could not in good conscience recommend to someone else unless I know them very well. To whom would I recommend a life of chasing your dreams, a risky life, a potentially uncomfortable life?

– To those who understand their worst-case scenario and are comfortable moving forward knowing that it may very well come to pass

– To those who put a margin for error in place and then stick with it. For me personally, if I ever get to the place where I have finished my projects and have no more income, then I will get a “real job.” I won’t hang on to my dream long after it’s withered, to the detriment of my family. That’s my margin. Know yours.

– To those who have supportive family or friends or a spouse willing to join you on the adventure.

– To those who have a plan and have already proven to themselves that they can make money doing what they love to do. If you want to make a living as a photographer, don’t quite your day job until you’ve made some money as a photographer. If you want to make a living as a writer, don’t resign from your day job until you’ve actually had someone pay you for your writing. Start leaning in the direction of your passion before you  make the leap.

* * * * *

So I watch my friend Kevin eagerly, waiting to see how things will work out for him. He’s made some good moves so far. One of them is writing an E-book which releases today, a book called, An Idiot’s Guide to the Galaxy. It’s funny. It’s clever. And it’s free.

Supporting someone who is chasing their dream was never any easier than this. Upload your free version HERE.

* * * * *

What’s the difference between chasing your dream and simply being irresponsible?

We are in Austin, Texas. I’m writing this close to midnight on Saturday night, and by the time it posts it will be the 15th of April. Two months down, two to go.

The kids are asleep. A cool breeze blows in through the bedroom window. Maile’s at the table at the front of the bus, writing. I’m in the back, in the dark, where I was stationed to sit until Sam fell asleep – now he’s on his side, wearing only a t-shirt and a diaper, sucking his thumb, taking easy, slow breaths.

Two months. Feels like two years. Or two decades.

We’ve stood in the midst of a slave graveyard, probing the ground for the missing headstones. I stared at the stars that night and wondered how such things could ever have been.

We got the bus stuck in a ditch. And then back out again.

We found out my aunt has breast cancer. And felt scared. And overwhelmed by her belief. And determined to stay positive with her.

We’ve stood with a crowd of people on the west coast of Florida on an ordinary night and watched the sun drop into the water. And everyone just stood there, their hands still shielding their eyes from a light that was no more, breathless at what they had just seen, frozen as still as if it was the last sunset.

We watched storm clouds roll into Memphis like tidal waves.

We viewed pictures on our friends’ Facebook profile of the memorial service for their not-yet-20-week-old baby. And I wept at the back of the bus.

We drove through Louisiana on bridges that go on for miles, bridges that overlook marshes and dilapidated houses. We walked the streets of New Orleans and saw pain and beauty. Hope and hopelessness.

We received a call from my mom that a friend’s two-year-old had drowned. Just like that, she was gone. And I think of my own children, and how every second I have with them is just grace.

We entered Texas and found it greener than expected, and more beautiful. A good friend took me to the VA hospital and I spoke with a vet while wearing a hospital gown over my clothes, and we fist-bumped before I left through our latex gloves.

And all along the way we’ve been blessed by family. Or old friends. Or internet friends we’d never met in real life before. Or complete strangers. Just blessing after blessing after blessing, unexpected, like pulling on your jeans and finding a $100 bill, but better because these blessings can’t be spent away.

So much death and life in two months. So many things lost and found. Thanks for traveling along with us.

*The picture is of the kids wading in the Guadalupe River north of San Antonio.

The VA hospital sat shrouded in silence, like a morgue for the living. Men in dire conditions sat quietly on scooters or in wheelchairs. They stared at Jack and I as we walked through the front door. I nodded hello to them. Some nodded back. Others did not. I felt very much out of place. For some reason, I felt very guilty.

“Oh, by the way, we’ll need to put on a gown and some gloves before we go in to see Ken,” said Jack, my friend and former Navy SEAL. “He’s got some open sores, nothing infectious, but we should cover up.”

I tried to hide my surprise. I thought we were just going in to say hi to a sick veteran, not don full Hazmat suits and enter an area where people’s limbs fell off. But it was too late for me to back out, so we stood there in the silent hallway, breaking open plastic bags. Pulling gowns over our heads. Squeaking our way into rubber gloves. I helped Jack slide a rubber glove on to his right hand – his left hand doesn’t work so well for things like that.

We walked up to the open doorway. Jack knocked on the metal frame – cling cling cling – then walked in. I hung back. The man in the hospital bed was not what I had expected.

Once upon a time, Ken had served two tours in Vietnam. Once upon a time, he had been a dog handler and a physical specimen. Once upon a time, he and Jack had done a four-hour swim during Jack’s recovery from being shot in the head. I would not have believed any of this, except that these once-upon-a-times hung on his wall in the form of photos. A small, square collage of a life long gone.

Now, just under 500 pounds, he sat in the bed. His chest hung down on to his stomach, which looked immobile. A heart condition had led to an incredible retention of water – left undiagnosed and untreated, his weight ballooned. A small blanket covered him from the waist down. A large mask covered his face and delivered necessary oxygen. Tubes slid past his nose.

I waited. I expected him to hate me, to stare at me with glowering eyes, wonder why someone would have the indecency to come and look at him, half naked, without permission. To see him at his worst, at his sickest, at his most vulnerable. After all, that’s what my response would have been in his situation: lock the door, stay away, don’t come near.

But immediately he smiled and took off the large mask. He sneezed maybe ten times while adjusting to the normal air. We punched knuckles.

“Hi there,” I said, not knowing what else to say.

“This is Shawn, a friend of mine,” Jack said quietly.

“Hi Shawn. How do you know this guy?” he asked. And so started our conversation. And he was normal. He was human. He was kind. I asked him about Vietnam. I asked him about coming back from Vietnam. He was happy to have gone from 492 to 468 that month. He talked and talked about it all, talked as if he never wanted me to leave, talked as if he had been unable to speak his entire life and these were the first fresh words to leave his mouth.

Too soon, we left. He wanted me to come back the next day, or maybe the next week? I explained that we would be on the road, leaving for a new destination. I told him to keep working hard, to keep getting better. We punched knuckles again. I could tell he was disappointed.

Jack and I walked into the hallway. I didn’t see another visitor, not in the entire place, just man after man who had given his life for this piece of geography I call home. Shattered minds and bodies littered those quiet hallways, and besides the staff there was no one to help them gather up the pieces.

Jack and I got into the elevator and rode it down to the ground floor. We walked outside and crossed the street. The San Antonio sky felt wider, higher.

Behind us they prepared to lock the gates for the night.

Then it comes time to look first for respite, especially after long days on the road. We walk into these plastic palaces, their AC blasting, their primary colors tearing holes in my retinas. The cool air instantly chills my skin’s thin layer of sweat and grime.

We herd the children to the playground in the separate room and then collapse into a nearby booth. We breathe in the cool air, eat slowly, and somewhere off in the distance Cade has Sam in a headlock and both of them are screaming and people are wondering where these kids’ parents are but we don’t even flinch. We just sit. And breathe. And drink milkshakes.

* * * * *

Eight weeks ago we pulled away from my parents’ house in Paradise, PA. Eight weeks. Feels like years ago, decades. Millennia. Stars have been born, expanded, and collapsed into black holes during the time it has taken for us to drive from Pennsylvania to Florida to Tennessee to Louisiana to Texas.

But we’ve reached the halfway point now, and some days we’re in survival mode. We’ve settled into the long middle stretch, when you begin to question your sanity, your resilience, your ability to make it to the end. Ice cream, which in the beginning was an occasional treat, is now the answer to every problem.

* * * * *

The kids have taken their shoes off in the playground and are throwing them at strangers. I tap on the glass, like a child at a zoo trying to scare the animals. While I want to minimalize their savage-like behavior, I also want them to burn off as much energy as possible. I give them a stern look and point a menacing finger towards the shoe rack. Their shoulders slump, as if I have told them they are forbidden from having fun for the rest of their lives. They reluctantly return the weapons to the rack.

I slouch back in the booth. On second thought, I go get a refill of sweet iced tea.

* * * * *

“It’s 8:30,” I say to Maile. “We should go back to the bus.”

“Do we have to?” she asks, sighing, taking another spoonful of milkshake.

“Five more minutes,” I say. She groans. She is worse than the kids.

* * * * *

Now it’s 10:07 pm. My computer says 11:07 because I never changed it from Eastern Time. The inside of our bus is mostly dark, except for the small beams that escape Cade’s bunk where he reads long into the night, long after everyone else has fallen asleep. Lucy is in the top bunk, her fan humming. Abra and Sammy sleep. Finally.

And no matter how I vowed that I would go to bed early, I simply cannot trade these quiet hours for anything. Especially not sleep. So I turn on some music. Maile falls asleep beside me in the bed. I write a little. I play Words With Friends. I check Facebook. I write some more.

Then, when I can barely keep my eyelids separated, I put away the computer and read books on my iPhone until I drift off and nearly drop the phone on my face. Then I turn it all off. I give in. Every possible minute has been squeezed out of this day.

I fall asleep, and I dream of wide open spaces.

* * * * *

Please head over to Kathy’s blog (Katdish) for a great review of my book, “Building a Life Out of Words.” I’ll admit I was a little nervous about this one because I knew she wouldn’t pull any punches.